


When The Dream Comes

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluffity fluff, M/M, and inspiring!, awesome fanart is awesome, fanart inspired, snogging on the couch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is woken from a very pleasant dream about Sherlock by Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Dream Comes

**Author's Note:**

> So, this little fic here is inspired by this [wonderful fanart](http://hvit-ravn.tumblr.com/post/10525579286/sofa-quick-sketch) by [hvit ravn](http://hvit-ravn.tumblr.com/post/10525579286/sofa-quick-sketch) that was posted over on tumblr. My initial reaction upon seeing it show up on my dash was a less eloquent version of "HNNNNG", so I declared that fic might happen. And... happen it did. So please, go leave the artist some love, because that's some damn hot fanart.
> 
> As per usual, whipped into shape by [Castiron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron) (but at least I'm getting better at endings, right?!). Not brit-picked, though, as also per usual with these fluffy bits.
> 
> It's been a productive week, just not on the stories I want to be productive on. Figures, eh?

John wakes up with Sherlock leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other against his cheek, shaking him gently, looking down at him in concern.

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, removing his hands, hesitating.

“Yeah,” John replies, shifting uncomfortably. He draws one knee up, hoping Sherlock won't notice the tell-tales of what sort of dream he'd been having. A quick glance around the room tells him it's later than he thinks it should be, that his nap lasted long enough that it'll take him forever to get to sleep tonight unless he drugs himself, and that Sherlock just got home; Sherlock is windblown and flushed, and his long coat has been discarded on the floor instead of draped over a chair or— god forfend— hung up where it belongs.

“You were dreaming,” Sherlock tells him. He's looking at John strangely, almost but not quite like John is an experiment (or a particularly interesting corpse). It takes John a moment to figure out what his expression might mean before he realizes that Sherlock looks confused, confused as he never is by his puzzles. The last time he saw Sherlock looking confused, John had a bomb strapped to his chest. That hadn't ended well either.

“Yeah,” John agrees, slowly. There is, after all, no point in denying that he’d been dreaming, if Sherlock had to wake him. John reaches out to push himself up into a sitting position on the sofa, but Sherlock fails to take the hint and back up, so he ends up with one arm along the back of the sofa and the other at his hip, abdominal muscles clenched to help him up and starting to quiver. John quickly sinks back into the cushions, but leaves his hands.

“About me,” Sherlock adds, and John looks up at him, eyes widening. Of course Sherlock knows, Sherlock almost always knows. What gave it away? John wonders sometimes if he walks around with a big flashing neon sign over his head that says 'Yeah, I fancy my flatmate'.

“How did you--” John isn't even sure he wants to know what about him made that deducible; it's sure to be embarrassing, and Sherlock isn't interested in him, god here comes the disdainful letdown.

“You were,” Sherlock pauses. His brow furrows, he looks even more confused. John is caught in his gaze. He's pretty sure every feeling, every illicit thought he's ever had about Sherlock is pulsing through his eyes.

“Moaning,” Sherlock adds, his voice going soft around the edges. He doesn't sound disdainful, he sounds like he's having a hard time actually getting the words out, like he can't quite accept their truth. _And is he staring at my mouth?_ John wonders. _He's definitely getting closer, isn't he?_

There's another hefty pause while they stare at each other. _This cannot possibly be happening_ , John thinks. _I'm still dreaming, surely. My subconscious is a seriously fucked up place._

“And saying my name,” Sherlock is whispering by now, voice rough; he definitely sounds like he doesn't believe what he's saying, and yet. At the same time he sounds excited. Aroused.

John certainly doesn't believe any of this. And he’s definitely aroused; if he gets any more aroused he’s going to embarrass himself in ways he hasn’t done since he was a teenager. There’s really no way this is happening, is there?

Sherlock looks wholeheartedly perplexed and fully aroused at this point, and it would be funny if it weren’t so ridiculously hot. There's something here, and despite the evidence he just can't believe it. He seems close, ever so close, to a decision. Sherlock in decision-making mode is at least as terrifying as Sherlock in experimentation mode.

“You were having an erotic dream. About me.”

And that's the crux of it. John was. And Sherlock knows. Now what?

John can't believe any of it either. This wasn't meant to come up, and certainly not like this.

“Sherlock,” he starts. _It's all fine_ , John means to say. _You're probably the fittest bloke I've ever met, and a mad genius, and an arrogant sod to boot. It's great, you're great. Of course I fancy the pants off you, but you don't seem into it— into me— except for sometimes, like now, when you look at me like this and it stops me breathing, I can't stand it, but it's all fine. I'm chuffed to bits that we're friends and flatmates and it's totally up to you, I'm happy just being in your life, really, seriously, it's enough, I mean it; I won't pine if we're only ever mates, because even that is more than I ever thought I'd have from anyone, let alone you, more than I'd ever dreamed of, it's ridiculous just how much I depend on you even as a friend, more than that and I think I might spontaneously combust— Jesus, I've had more fun since I met you than I've had in absolute ages. It's all fine, Sherlock. Whatever you decide, it's fine._

But he doesn't say any of that, doesn't even get a chance to start, because Sherlock has clearly decided, and Sherlock kisses him. Leans over impossibly far, catches himself against John's shoulder, and kisses him.

And, _oh_ , this is totally all right with John.

Sherlock drops to his knees to keep kissing John, and the angle is all wrong. The angle is off, and Sherlock's nose is smooshed into John's cheek, there might be a little bit of slobber, and it's awkward and _glorious_. John makes a noise that can only be described as _wanting_ and leans up and changes the angle and then a supernova goes off in his head.

“Did I do this in your dream?” Sherlock asks, voice low and velvet and smooth, crawling over John, slithering over John, pouring himself over John to kneel between his knees, holding himself up with an arm on John's shoulder and one shoved between John's hip and the back of the couch. John hitches his already bent knee over Sherlock’s, takes the chance to draw a shaky breath. Sherlock kisses John again, all softness and tenderness underlying the words he just uttered, warmth and yearning and this is clearly something he's been wanting quite possibly more than John. Sherlock kisses with his whole body, with more earnestness than anyone John has ever kissed before. _Glorious_.

“What about this?” Sherlock asks against his lips, before breaking the kiss and nibbling along John's mandible, huffing a breath across the shell of his ear, making John shudder, kissing and nibbling his way down John's neck. He's braced himself against John's good shoulder, rocked back so most of his weight is on his knees, and snakes his other hand under John's jumper.

“And this?” Sherlock starts unbuttoning John's shirt under his jumper one-handed, clumsy, the most human and graceless fumbling John has ever witnessed from Sherlock, who is never graceless and rarely seems entirely human, spreading the cloth to the either side and nuzzling into the sweater, against John's chest. And--”Jesus god, Sherlock, that feelsssss so so so,” his voice dies on the sibilants; the texture is phenomenal, why has he never gone shirtless beneath his jumpers before? Sherlock's warm breath through the wool is quite possibly the strangest and yet most erotic sensation he's ever felt.

Sherlock chuckles against his chest, through his jumper, and John writhes. Sherlock is making little growly noises, rubbing against his jumper like a cat, the hand not holding himself up curling in the wool, quite possibly ruining the already ancient jumper and _good grief who cares?_

“Jesus, Jesus oh Ch-Christ, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock, come here,” John stammers, grabbing Sherlock by his lapel and hauling him by main force back within kissing range. For a long minute, John just looks at him. Looks Sherlock dead in the eye, until Sherlock sighs, impatient.

“Are you going to kiss me some more or just stare at me, John? I doubt staring was something I was doing in your dream.” And he sounds so normal, so very much himself, so hopeful yet disdainful, that John can’t help but grin. Even now, at the beginning of things, as everything twists and shifts around them while they lie entwined on their sofa, Sherlock is entirely himself. It’s reassuring and annoying at the same time. So John does the only thing he can do; he obliges Sherlock and snogs him. Holds him like something precious and kisses him; keeps kissing him, loses himself in the kissing and drags Sherlock under with him.

He loses track of how long they spend on the couch snogging, floating in it, drowning in the ocean of sensation. For a brief, shining moment, John understands entirely the way data sometimes overwhelms Sherlock, because he is overwhelmed by Sherlock. After that he gives in and lets himself be overwhelmed.

John doesn’t know how much time they spend there on the sofa kissing, but he notices that it’s gone twilit outside when they finally break apart so as to be able to draw breath. Sherlock’s breath is harsh against his neck, over his ear, and he shudders with reaction, with arousal. He has every intention of figuring out where to touch Sherlock, where to breathe against his skin to cause this very reaction, and of reciprocating every chance he gets.

“Come on, Sherlock, up. Up up _up_ ,” John pushes and shoves at Sherlock until he rises to his knees over John, looking confused again, mussed and aroused and possibly the most attractive thing John has ever seen. He can’t help the sound that escapes his throat, and it sounds very close to a growl.

“We’re stopping?”

John has never heard him so disappointed. He jumps to his feet and grabs Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along, barely giving the other man time to find his feet in his own haste.

“Of course not. Come upstairs and I’ll show you what I was doing in my dream.”


End file.
